Hey! Would you be open to writing a blackhill fic, where Natasha’s recently adopted a young/baby girl from the red room/similar and Maria is there to help her? <3
No one survives alone | Blackhill x little girl reader!
⋆˚🧸˖°Summary:learning to be a girl again, slow and fearful.
⋆˚🧸˖°Content warning:PTSD, childhood trauma, mentions of past torture/abuse, fear of water, emotional distress. Contains comfort, gentle parenting, and healing. No explicit content.
You wake up panting, the breathing broken, the throat irritated by a scream that never left your mouth. Your fingers cling to the sheets, the fabric suddenly too soft, too unknown. There is sweat stuck to your neck, your chest, your back, and for a second - just a second - you are not sure where you are.
The shadows on the wall move, and your chest squeezes as you always did there. The room is too silent. There are no steps. There are no orders. There are no alarms. Only this horrible silence that is wrapped in your skin as a memory too heavy to name. You screw you stronger, with your knees glued to the chest, the arms around, and endure your breathing as you used to do when they passed by your cot, waiting for maybe tonight you were invisible.
But silence does not last.
You hear it: the soft bare feet bouncing on the wooden floor. No boots. Not the cold heels or someone's weight coming to take something away. Only a constant and careful rhythm. A family. Even so, you startle when the door opens with a squeak, blinking strongly when the warm light of the hall floods the room.
There is a silhouette at the entrance - high, thin, but not intimidating. His red hair is collected in a loose braid, and wears a gray and soft diver pants. Nothing tactical. Nothing that smells of fear. Natasha.
She says nothing at the beginning. She only looks at you. And somehow, She knows.
As soon as his eyes meet yours, you feel that something breaks inside your chest - it is not pain exactly, only a sudden heat behind the eyes, the guy who makes it difficult to breathe. You look at the look, embarrassed. You didn't want to wake her up. You didn't want to make so much noise.
But cross the room in three silent steps and kneel next to your bed, his soft hand when she leaves it just a few centimeters from yours.
"Nightmare?" His voice is soft, low, snoring for sleep but never lasts. Sets once, just. Your lips squeeze as if they could betray yourself if you let them move.
She doesn't ask what it was. She never does. Instead, open your arms slowly, waiting, letting you decide. You hesitate - just a beat - and then your body leans forward before your mind can reach it. She raises you easily, holds you close, your cheek against her shoulder, her hand stroking the back of your head with a slow and anchored rhythm.
You expect you to leave you again in bed, to tell you to try again, that you sleep until it happens. But she doesn't. It takes you out of the room, a firm hand on your back, the other under your knees, and walks towards the living room where the light is dim and the air smells slightly to mint tea and lavender.
Maria is already there, curled up on the couch with a blanket on the legs and a semi -closed book on her chest. Look up as soon as he listens to them. His eyes are focused as always - but softer when they perch. He doesn't ask anything. He doesn't need it. Close the book, remove the blanket and spread your arms while Natasha goes down to space between them.
None says it's fine, because they know it is not. Not yet. They know what words like that mean nothing when fear still feels real in the chest, when your mind is still trapped in rooms that smelled of blood, iron and lavandina. They don't try to reason with your fear. They do not minimize it. They only hug you.
Maria wraps the blanket on your shoulders, her arm slides around your waist, warm and strong, while Natasha suits your side, a hand resting on your knee. You are tight between them, and for a long time, none speaks. The only sounds are the low buzzing of the refrigerator, the tic-tac of the clock on the wall, and the slow and couple breathing of two women who have killed to live but hold you as if you were something sacred.
It takes a long time to match your breathing to them.
When you finally whisper, your voice is broken and small. "I thought they had forgotten. I thought I was back there. I thought that."
Maria narrows you stronger before you finish, her lips brushing the upper part of your head, and when she speaks, her voice is lower than the outside wind. "You're not there. You're at home. You're here. With us."
You deny your head, your hands clinging to the blanket fabric. "But I don't know how to be here. I make mistakes.
There is a pause. A deep silence. And then Natasha says, in a low voice but with that unwavering steel under his words: "You need to be nothing more than yourself. You have already survived more than most of your life. You can be messy. You can be afraid. That doesn't make you broken - it makes you real."
You don't know why those words make you cry. But they do. Tears arrive fast and hot, soaking the fabric of your neck. You try to hide the face, but Maria takes the cheek gently and guides your head towards her shoulder.
"You never had to do this alone," whisper. "And now you don't have to do it anymore."
The three remain so - without questions, without arrangements, without pressure. Only a shared silence between beats and women who know how to stay during storms. Maria's fingers separate your hair. Natasha Taraea a cradle song that you do not recognize but, in some way, it is familiar to you.
And for the first time in a long time, darkness does not seem to close on you.
You close your eyes, still trembling but safe among them, and you allow yourself to believe - it just a little - that maybe, just maybe, you will not be alone.
Wake up surrounded by heat, a heat that does not come from the blankets or the cushions, but from the soft weight of two people who did not release you for a moment when the nightmare caught you. An arm holds your little body, strong and safe, the fabric of a shirt brushing your cheek. The other arm hugs you by behind, the fingers rest slowly on your ribs, firm and present as a lighthouse in the fog. You are in the sofa, not in your bed, snuggled between Natasha's chest and the side of Maria, wrapped in a woven blanket that smells like mint and something softer, something similar to safety. The light that enters through the blinds is golden and still sleepy, forming long stripes on the wooden floor. You are still, fear that if you breathe very deep this moment.
You still have what happened last night, diffuse and at the same time intense: the heart hitting strong, the body trembling, the voice trapped in the throat when the memories invaded you. You think you shouted, or maybe just hate. You do not remember the sound, only the fear, raw and bitter, like a tide that you could not stop. But you remember the arms that sustained you strongly. Natasha was the first to reach you, as always, whispering something in Russian against the hair. Maria came later, more slow but sure, anchoring you with calm in her voice, that calm that does not demand answers or words. They stayed with you all night, without hesitation or complain. Only presence.
You open your eyes shyly, and you feel the change in Natasha's breathing when you wake up with you. His voice is low, almost a whisper with your temple.
Maria makes a soft sound behind you, half asleep, and her fingers touch your arm. There is a silence later, heavy but not uncomfortable, like those mornings after the storm. You are hot, wrapped in your arms, but the thought that comes is cold. You remember what Natasha said before you fell asleep, her quiet voice, as if she didn't want to scare you.
"We should clean you a little, malyshka. Just a bath. Nothing more."
Words rumble now in your head. A bath. The sounds hurt in the chest. Your whole body is tense before you think about it. The breathing is shortened, the fingers squeeze the blanket and your eyes look for the corner of the room, as if waiting to see cold metal, straps or voices screaming in you orders. You know that you are no longer in the red room, that you are safe, but your body remembers the pain of cold water, the electrical discharges they burned. You remember how they held you underwater, drowning your screams until the lungs arrange you, getting up only enough to keep alive, and then doing it again.
Do not look at Natasha, but she sees everything: the tension on your shoulders, the tight mandibule, her hands trembling. Do not hurry or strength you. Instead, she moves away a little to give you space and speak again, more carefully, every word with a huge weight.
"I know what they did to you," she says, every word full of meaning. "I remember what you told me. I know it wasn't just water. I know what they put on him. In what made him."
Your throat closes and a knot in the stomach prevents you from talking to you. You would like to be brave, normal, but not even move seems possible. Your legs do not respond and your heart beats so strong that it seems that it will get out of your chest.
Natasha does not seem disappointed. She is never with you. Squeeze the blanket around your shoulders and extend your hand to offer support, without pushing you.
"I promise you," she says in a low voice, firm, "this time will be different. And you don't have to do anything alone."
His voice is an anchor that holds you. Slowly native. It's little, almost an unimportant gesture, but she sees it. Natasha stands out slowly, gives you time, and when you finally get up, Maria accommodates your shirt and puff your hair carefully, as if you were glass. No one hurries you, there is no "well done," or praise, or pressure. Just silence and presence.
She guides you carefully to the bathroom, accompanying your slow and hesitant passage. The air here is warm - Maria should have ignited the heating - and the mirror is tarnished by steam. The bathtub is full only halfway, the water still and clear, without a single cable or sharp edge. A soft yellow towel is carefully folded on the counter, and next to it floats a small rubber shark, as if waiting for you.
Your feet freeze on the threshold, reluctant to cross.
Natasha bends down at your height, without pressing, and immerses the arm in the water, sliding its forearm slowly under the surface. Nothing happens - without discharging, without pain, without flashing lights. Water is just water.
Then, without hesitation, he gets completely in the bathtub, sitting against the curved edge, the wet pants sticking to his legs while the warm water comes just under his knees. His arms rest gently on the sides while looking at you with quiet and firm eyes - without pleading, without ordering, just waiting patiently. "If you want," she says, his low and patient voice, "you can come to sit with me. I will not let the water touch you if you do not want. Only this. Only us. "
The look is nailed to you, divided between the memories that lurk you and the quiet presence in front of you. After what seems like an eternity, you take one step, then another, until you accommodate in your lap, burying your face on your shoulder and curling you as strong as your little body can. The water gently brushes your feet, warm and safe, different from everything you have known.
His arms wrap you with that silent force that he never needs to shout to make himself feel. She kisses you gently on the head and simply breathe with you.
The minutes pass. Your breathing calms down, the shoulders relax, the hands are released from their shirt. Tears arrive without warning, warm and silent against their neck. It does not say a word - it is not necessary.
Eventually, a soft blow breaks silence. Maria appears her head through the door, her sharp eyes softened to see the scene: you, soaked and tremble, curled up in Natasha's lap as a fragile creature rescued from the shipwreck. She smiles - a gentle, sad and proud smile - and gets silent.
She kneels next to the bathtub, carefully pushing the wet tufts of your face. His voice is calm but safe. "You are stronger than you think. It's fine to be afraid. You're not alone."
You close your eyes again, wrapped in heat and safety. For the first time, water does not feel like an enemy, but as a place where healing may begin.
The heat of the bath is still clinging to your skin while Natasha wraps you carefully in a soft towel, her firm and delicate hands while drying your hair with a skill practiced. You feel the persistent security traces that only she can create - as a shield against all the ghosts that whisper since your past. Maria is already in the kitchen, her silent and efficient movements, the smell of something sweet and comforting attracts you to the small dining table, bathed in the morning light.
Natasha loads you as if you were not weighing anything, her eyes alert, scanning every corner as if the danger could still hide in the room illuminated by the sun. When he leaves you on the floor, she immediately addresses the kitchen counter, where Maria has arranged a simple but tempting breakfast: stacked pancakes, shredded fresh fruit bowls with dew, and a small pot of oatmeal smoking gently by her side.
You slide into the chair with a small sigh, still wrapped in the towel, observing how Natasha's look sharpens. Without saying a word, it takes a strawberry slice, his eyes narrowing as if the fruit could, suddenly, reveal some hidden poison. Slowly, the proof, his inscrutable face, but never losing that cautious look.
Maria looks at her with a quiet smile, without saying anything. Natasha goes to oatmeal, taking a spoonful to her lips with the same slow and deliberate caution. The test alone, in silence, refusing to let you even try a bite until you have verified everything by itself.
You observe this ritual with a strange mixture of comfort and discomfort. You know that Natasha's surveillance is not born from distrust of Mary, but from the battles she has fought and the dangers she has faced - invisible paper for most, which stalk even in the smallest things: a juice box, a slice of bread, a piece of fruit, anyoneof which could be contaminated with something deadly. This is the caution she charges for you.
Finally, Maria breaks silence, her patient but firm tone.
"Nat, you don't have to try all yourself." I made sure that everything was sure. I checked each ingredient before buying it.
Natasha's gaze flashes into Maria, sharp but tired, and then poses in you.
"I can't give me that luxury." Not with her.
Maria's smile softens, a gentle warmth behind her firm eyes.
"You are right to be careful." But sometimes, you have to release a little. We both want her to be safe, yes. But you also need to feel safe - of a way that allows you to grow, not just survive.
The tension in the room dissipates while Natasha exhales slowly, with the slightest curve of a smile playing her lips.
"I'll relax when you know it's truly safe."
Maria moves to your side, take out a chair and feel close enough to feel her quiet presence.
"What if we have breakfast together?" Without threats, without poison. Only pancakes and stories.
You give a tentative bite to the pancake, the sweetness a kind of balm for your tongue and your nerves. Natasha watches you closely, but with less tension now, her arms crossed with ease while leaning on the counter.
Maria's voice easily floats on the table, light and comforting.
"The weather is supposed to be clear all day." This morning, a little bird perched on the window of the window as if waiting for a company. She didn't seem scared at all.
Natasha's rare smile deepens, and adds with a mocking tone:
"She is still learning which meals are not traps." Sometimes it feels like a mission to get something.
Maria laughs gently, a sound full of understanding.
"And sometimes, exactly so you feel."
Slow chews, feeling how heat extends through your chest in a way that does not come only from food.
After breakfast, the apartment sinks into a soft stillness. You feel warmth against your body, wrapped in the huge sweatshirt that Natasha took out of a drawer without asking, the sleeves falling well below your hands. The fabric smells of her: leather, somewhat smoked, and something softer that reminds you of the mornings.
The room is dim, silent, except for the gentle buzz of television. Natasha accommodates first on the couch, his fluid and deliberate movements. She says nothing when he opened the blanket, she only looks at you and waiting for you. You curl without the need for them to ask you. Maria joins your other side, with a small fruit bowl in one hand and the remote control in the other.
"Do you want to choose the movie?" Asks Maria with sweetness, giving you a slight codazo. Something with animals that speak? Or something quiet?
You deny your head, and Natasha captures the gesture.
"His," murmurs, already moving. His voice is low, controlled, the same tone he uses when something matters. Something quiet. Not too much.
Maria looks at her - understanding, soft - but he doesn't say anything. Simply press "Play" in an old animated film, of those where much happens, but everything feels safe.
You sit between them, with your legs collected, and little by little, your body begins to relax. Natasha doesn't say much, but her arm is there, firm behind you. His fingers move slowly on your shoulder, up and down, in a pattern that asks for nothing. Just being. Maria speaks from time to time; casual things, easy things.
"A bird landed at the potter this morning while reading a report." She looked at me as if I had something to say.
You look up. Maria is looking at the screen, but you know she is talking for you.
"It was a rare blue thing." A little misguided. I called it Stan. I think he judged me.
You almost smile, and Maria notice it for the corner of the eye.
Natasha releases a slight laugh.
You take up a little more against the side of Natasha, and his arm surrounds you as if he had always wanted to be there. Without hesitation.
"Probably the most interesting of that report," Maria adds with a sigh, stretching her legs. Everything else was numbers. Numbers and politics.
"Your favorites," says Natasha seriously.
"Only when they explode."
You do not understand at all what it means with that, but the way your chest says. Their voices feel safe. Like the creak of a fireplace in another room. Warm and distant. Not too high.
Finally, your head begins to bow. More slow flickers. The voices fade into a murmur.
"She's sleeping," Maria outskirts.
Natasha does not move, she doesn't even look down. I already knew.
Maria looks at her tenderly.
Natasha doubt. Then, with a sigh quite than any other in the room, she says:
"It's here." That is enough for now.
Do not listen to anything. You have already gone, wrapped in warmth, tight between two firm beats that never drop you.
